True Nature
by Sapsorrow86
Summary: He thought the wings were the worst of the transformation, until the urges hit. He really, really hated fairies...


He'd done considerable research, after he'd first discovered the other half of his parentage. Few things had even been written about fairies, sadly, and even less about their unnatural offspring. Most books that talked of changelings stated that they were mostly human, with no outward evidence of their half-fairy status. There was virtually no way of distinguishing between a human and a changeling, reason why so many where introduced into unsuspecting farmer's homes in lieu of their own child. That way fairies could forget about their babes, who would grow safe and none the wiser about their true nature.

His mother hadn't felt that impulse, certainly. She'd left him to suffer the indifferent attentions of his father, likely knowing full well it would end in tragedy. She just hadn't cared. Confronting her only confirmed his suspicions, and he hated himself later for looking in the mirror and trying to find a trace of her in his face. He concluded that he had her cheekbones, her eyebrows and that he was a fool. The mirror ended up shattered on the floor and he'd cleaned it up with magic, lest he have to deal with a maid who asked one too many questions or cut herself in her clumsiness. The girl was frightfully careless.

He'd discovered, in an obscure text that dealt with all manner of magical creatures and had about half a page dedicated to changelings, a rather unpopular theory regarding such children. Some people, apparently, were of the opinion that changelings were different from humans, but such a difference lay beyond the eye of the beholder. He dismissed the tome. After all, his life was proof enough that changelings were most ordinary. He'd never displayed anything other than human characteristics as a child, an adolescent and an adult. Nothing about his life, up to the point where he'd become the Dark One- and excluding his unpleasant journey to and from Neverland-, had been most ordinary. He was living proof that, as much as he hated admitting it, it was Malcolm's human condition the one he'd inherited.

He confined his carefully-collected research material to the furthest part of his library, where he could safely put it out of his mind. It wasn't worth thinking about, especially when his focus should be solely on Baelfire and the final touches of the plan to reunite him with his boy. But, to be completely honest, the plan itself didn't require his constant attention. His maid, thankfully, provided enough entertainment for when he was bored. She was a study in contradictions, brave and strong for others but weak and scared when it came to herself. He'd expected her to have no skills whatsoever aside from some embroidering or something else equally useless, but to his surprise the girl could cook. As a Dark One he didn't really need to eat and he wasn't used to sitting down for proper meals but he'd thought it'd be funny to force the little princess to try to cook. She'd showed him up, in the most modest way possible, as if pretending she hadn't realised what he'd tried to do. And though that had hardly been entertaining he had to admit he'd enjoyed that honey baked ham and the roasted potatoes.

He'd theorised she might have learnt how to cook one thing, but to his surprise further testing indicated it was not the case. Finally, after stuffing him full of venison stew and cherry pie, she'd proven to be the winner in their little competition. She explained, when he grudgingly complimented her cooking, that she'd begged her parents to let her help at the makeshift hospital set up inside the castle for when the ogre attacks had become commonplace. They'd agreed to let her help the cook in the kitchen and later the healers when they got too busy and every extra pair of hands was welcomed.

He'd known about her meagre healing talents, since she'd used them to tend to the poor thief who had repaid her by using her kindness to escape the castle. But the cooking was a surprise. And the baking. The baking. It was phenomenal. Downright sinful. As a peasant sweets and cakes hadn't been part of his reality. Food was bland, often stale and always scarce. Once he'd become the Dark One he'd almost forgone it altogether. There was no real need for it, per se, but he liked to indulge every now and then. With the girl in the castle he'd arranged for regular meals with the idea of forcing her to slave away in the kitchen, where she'd surely make a mess of things and experience first-hand some of the difficulties the kitchen wenches at her former home did. That plan had gone out the window, but he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it. He even allowed her to go out to the orchard so she could collect fresh fruit with which to make jams, jellies and fillings for her delicious tarts. So, what if she spent most of the time reading outside as long as she came back to the castle with a basket full of peaches to bake into a cobbler?

The more sweets he ate the more he seemed to want. It was bizarre, but at least his little maid seemed to think this was simply one of his odd quirks and seemed happy to indulge him. His fearsome facade suffered for it but it seemed like a small price to pay for satisfying his new craving. And though it meant that his little maid was a bit more lippy and irreverent that he would have liked he couldn't well say she shirked her duties. Though the castle was mostly self-cleaning his little Belle dutifully did the laundry, washed the dishes and "dusted the library", though the last seemed to include a lot of reading and no dusting equipment whatsoever. She also seemed to want to "brighten up" the castle, as if the concept of a dark lair escaped her.

Rumplestiltskin thought it extremely foolish, of course, but a visit to the Queen's castle one day made him reconsider. Her Majesty was being a pain, which was usual, and he had the thankless task of putting up with her latest temper tantrum- how hard was it to accept that the peasants loved pure Snow White more than the woman who periodically ordered the massacre of entire villages? - when he spotted a rather pretty flower arrangement. Gardenias, freshly-picked and sweet smelling. He bent close to appreciate their scent, which somehow made him think of his little maid. Maybe she'd like flowers around the castle.

With that in mind he returned to the castle and ordered his little Belle to pick out some wildflowers, telling her non-too-kindly that she needed some sunlight before he started seeing right through her. Though she didn't seem fooled by his quip she agreed eagerly to the request and soon enough there were flower arrangements strewn all over his home, their collective scent lingering in the air. Soon he found himself lingering in the rooms that had flower arrangements, finding their perfume exceedingly soothing. His maid seemed to notice right away but to her credit chose not to mention it. But ever so bold and brass she started leaving bases of flowers inside his own room, which he would've commented on if he hadn't found it so pleasant. If he let it the smell would draw him into a lazy sort of stupor, not quite like sleeping but not exactly fully conscious either. After centuries of restlessness the sudden peace the smell of flowers produced had an almost drugging effect.

There was one particular scent above all that appealed to him. For weeks, he tried to trace it around the Dark Castle, tried to narrow it down to one specific bloom or combination of flowers but it escaped him, staying just out of his reach. It wasn't until his industrious little maid got it into her head to open the curtains in his trophy room- what was the point of a well-lit Dark Castle anyhow? - and fell right into his arms instead that he figured it out.

The scent was hers.

It wasn't her soap or the oils and balms she used for her hair. A cursory snoop around the bathing chamber she'd claimed as her own had told him that. It wasn't any spice or condiment she came into contact in the kitchen- no mixture of vanilla, cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon or whatever else in her spice rack could account for it, or any cleaning product she favoured. It was simply... Belle. How he had not noticed her scent before was beyond him. Now it seemed it was all that he could smell. He made it into a game. He'd dull his magical senses and sniff the air, letting his little maid's perfume guide him to her. Like a cat he grew accustomed to following Belle from room to room, always under the pretence of it being a coincidence. He grew cranky whenever his deals took him out of the castle, away from that amazing smell. Too far gone to be ashamed he made linen handkerchiefs which he'd offer to his maid to wipe her neck or forehead with whenever she did particularly physical work. Then he'd steal them from the laundry pile and tuck them into his vest to carry around as he made deals and annoyed Regina.

It was a less than stellar arrangement. The voices inside his head, the previous Dark Ones, berated him for not looking into his strange new peculiarities. But for the most part Rumplestiltskin did not want a solution to his problem. He'd never felt better in his centuries of existence, never felt such level of contentment. A sweet snack, a sprig of flowers or a whiff of Belle was all it took to brighten his day, calm his rage and temporarily fill the aching emptiness of the curse he bore. So, what if it had taken years for him to develop coping mechanisms?

It wasn't until the pain came that he truly started to worry. It started like an itch, vaguely located on his back, the sort that was impossible to pinpoint exactly. It almost seemed to come from somewhere beneath his skin and it was maddening that he couldn't find the correct place to scratch. The itch finally settled somewhere between his shoulder blades but remained out of his reach no matter how much he scratched the scales that covered his back. On occasion, when he could not tolerate the sensation for another minute, he'd break down and ask Belle to scratch his back for him. Though she could never quite hit the correct spot either her efforts were much more soothing than his own and bought him at least a few hours of relative peace.

After that came the burning, like someone was pressing a heated iron rod on his skin from inside his body. It was uncomfortable as Hell, making him wiggle his shoulders constantly in an attempt to somehow jostle whatever was causing it. Belle, of course, had noticed the change and hovered around him whenever he showed the least bit of discomfort. Even though he yelled at her and attempted to shrug off her help, the sensation making him cranky and her nearness nervous, she'd press on as if he wasn't the most powerful and feared sorcerer in the realm. She'd wake up early, put on her sturdiest pair of boots and trudge up the nearest mountain, climbing just enough to reach snow. She'd fill a bucket with it and slowly make her way down, keeping the bucket in the pantry, where nothing ever melted or rotted or otherwise felt the passage of time. Whenever she saw Rumplestiltskin start to fidget- he wiggled his entire body, which she was sure he was unaware of- she'd go to the kitchen, wrap a bit of snow in a towel, and press it against his back. It was a testament to his increasing discomfort that he'd forgone his dramatic jackets and high-collared vests because of the tenderness of the skin on his back. It was also telling that he started fighting her less and less whenever she went at him with the ice-pack, sometimes even sighing in relief as she carefully iced his back.

The pains came upon him more sudden than all the other symptoms. One afternoon he was going to put a crystal ball back into the cabinet in the trophy room when he'd felt a searing stabbing pain in his back. The force and surprise of it had made him drop the ball, causing it to shatter into a million tiny pieces. A moment later Belle was beside him, hands on his shoulders to guide him to the nearest chair before rushing out of the room to make him an ice-pack. He'd spent half an hour slumped on the chair with Belle icing his back and supporting the rest of his upper body, letting him rest his head against her shoulder and even going as far as to pet his hair. The spot where her neck met her shoulder reeked of that wonderful Belle smell so he'd pressed his nose against it and taken deep breaths, the scent distracting him from the pain.

That first pain was nothing compared to the ones that came after. Searing, deep jabs, like someone was stabbing him with a heated dagger... from the inside. Every waking moment was permeated with the fear of an impending pain. Belle hovered around him constantly, knowing it was futile to ask him to rest for a few days but unwilling at the same time to leave him alone to deal with the results of his stubbornness. He grew shaky and irritable, his magic going haywire at times and soon it became impossible to leave the castle, lest his weakness be exposed to others. Relentless questioning of former Dark Ones revealed whatever was happening to him had never happened to any of the others before.

The fever set in almost exactly a week after the first pain appeared. After centuries of perfect health, the feeling of deep-seated exhaustion and cold that swept over him was strange, almost completely foreign. He woke up one day to find himself burning up and freezing at the same time. Every joint in his body ached, which meant getting up or moving at all was out of the question. When he failed to show up for breakfast Belle was quick to check in on him, regardless of the fact that he'd told her repeatedly not to venture inside his room. She found him burrowing under a pile of furs and pelts shivering despite the roaring fire a few feet from the bed.

It was a testament to how poor he was that he did not even attempt to shoo her away when she climbed onto his massive bed, intent on helping him. On the contrary he sought her out, crawling to where she was and curling up around her, sighing in relief when she hugged him close to her instead of rebuffing him. There was not an ounce of rejection in her, in spite of the strange texture of his skin or the sharpness of his nails, or the fact that sick or not he was a dangerous creature and could end her life as easily as breathing. His mother had rejected him when he was but a babe, with a world of possibilities ahead of him. His father had done the same when he was but a wee boy with nothing but love for him. But now, old beyond imagination, broken and twisted into something inhuman, something that would make anyone's skin crawl, he finally found acceptance and it was in the arms of a bona fide noble lady who was beautiful and kind and had no reason in the world to tolerate him, much less embrace him. It was the strangest thing, really, a sort of irony of life.

He didn't have the presence of mind to question it, to mistrust it. Instead he clung to it, to her, and tried to concentrate on how soft she was, how great she smelled, how she fussed over him with cold compresses and gentle pettings. But by the end of the third day of being in constant, unmitigated pain, there was no relief. He could feel nothing but the burning on his back and the ache in his shoulder blades. Even more disturbing he felt something moving inside him, pushing against the skin. Though Belle never said anything he knew she could see it too, could feel the tips of her fingers ghosting over where his skin suddenly bulged and stretched as if something inside Rumplestiltskin was fighting its way out. He could not even bring himself to feel shame about having forgone any garments save for linen pants, his entire body from the hips upwards too sensitive for clothing.

Three days after the appearance of the latest symptom Rumplestiltskin woke up suddenly to the feeling of something wet sticking to his back. He grumbled, trying to dislodge whatever wet rag or cold compress Belle had placed on his back, clearly in need of changing. He was wrapped tight around his little maid, who was, by the looks of it, dead asleep, both of them cosy in a nest of furs and pelts. She'd been running herself ragged for days or possibly even weeks, he wasn't quite sure. She looked pale and a bit thin, clearly a sign she'd been skipping meals and resting little. He tried to peel himself away from her, planning on using a wisp of magic to change her into something more comfortable- sleeping with a whalebone corset did not seem particularly pleasant- and send her to her own, comfy bed, but the slight movement was enough to rouse her. For a brief second she smiled at him, somehow completely at ease in spite of waking up to what had to be a pretty unpleasant sight- he was hardly worth looking at when he was groomed and fully clothed, much less sweaty and in desperate need of a bath as he was then. A moment later she startled awake completely, laying a hand against his forehead.

"Your fever has broken. Thank the gods."

It was then that the Dark One realised the pain was gone. Not completely but it had dulled to a very bearable throb. Relief almost made him dizzy and judging by Belle's radiant smile he wasn't alone. He felt weak as a kitten and his magic felt somewhat off, but it was sure a matter of time before he was back to normal.

"Let me check your back, Rumple. And then maybe I can bring you something to eat?"

She knelt beside him in bed and slowly peeled away the pelts covering him, her expression going from relief to confusion and then stunned surprise, letting out an adorable little squeak before clasping both hands over her mouth.

"What? What is it?"

"You've got... something on your back. It's... it's covered in blood."

Slowly, as if afraid of hurting him, she reached out to touch whatever it was on his back and to Rumple's increasing panic the moment she touched it he felt it. It wasn't his back she was softly stroking with her fingers, not exactly. But he could feel it, acutely, in some new area of his body.

"They're... wings."

For a moment, the word just floated there between them, loud in the silence of the room. Slowly, as if in a dream, Rumplestiltskin reached out with a hand to his back, one of his nails almost snagging on the delicate membrane of his new appendages. With a sudden urgency, he explored with both hands and, clearly in a panic, began to claw at the wings, digging his sharp nails into the skin where the wings disappeared into his back, tearing the flesh open.

"Stop it, Rumple, stop it!"

Weak as he was it wasn't hard to subdue him, even in his panicky state. Unsure what else to do she hugged him, pining his arms to his sides in the process, and gently rocked him back and forth as he hyperventilated and struggled weakly, trying and failing to form words. Her mind conjured up that night, such a long time ago, when Rumplestiltskin had met his mother, and had been mocked by her in return. They had never spoken of it, though she'd heard him express his hatred of fairies once or twice since then. Belle had rather thought it was all wrapped up in his self-hatred, since he was effectively cursing half of what he was, even if he'd never displayed any sort of fae-like trait.

Until then, that was.

With soft, crooning words and gentle touches Belle managed to move Rumplestiltskin to his bathing chamber, where she carefully and diligently washed his wings with a soft cloth and a bowl of lemon-scented water. The wings were big, falling down her master's back like an ominous cloak, and though they didn't react to the cloth or the water at all whenever she'd touch them with her bare hands they'd twitch ever-so-slightly. After that it was easy to convince him to get a few more hours of sleep. It'd been weeks since the last time he'd slept deeply and in his shocked state his mind was more than happy to drift off for a while.

It took two days of meals and gentle nursing from Belle to get Rumplestiltskin out of whatever stupor he was in, but once he recovered he was eager to get out of bed and find out what was happening with him.

"Hundreds of years with fairy blood running in my veins and nothing. Less than nothing. And now I'm suddenly a moth. There must be an explanation."

His wings, though undeniably part of his fairy heritage, were not, indeed, butterfly-like. Instead they were sturdy, coated in a layer of fuzz and coloured in various shades of ochre, burnt orange, gold and brown, as if to match his skin. Moth wings, which he sarcastically called appropriate. Belle, secretly, adored them. She knew the mere sight of them disgusted Rumplestiltskin but to her they were a thing of beauty. They remained listless and folded most of the time but if she brushed against them they'd twitch and sometimes unfurl, particularly when her master was flustered, which he usually was when she got too close. He was dealing with the wings better than she thought he would, which meant he ignored them whenever he could. After extracting some of the fuzz from them and studying them under sunlight and moonlight he'd studiously ignored them, while dedicating all his attention to trying to find the reason for them. Diligently Belle had adapted some of his simpler cotton shirts, the peasant-style ones in shades of white and cream, to close and tie around his back to accommodate the new appendages, more for modesty's sake than anything else, and had joined him then in his efforts. He'd fought her at first, but she'd pointed out that she knew fairy languages and could then read text coming straight from the source. There were very few books written in fairy language, since they were very secretive about themselves. Rumplestiltskin had managed to amass quite a collection, however, which Belle suspected was due to his heritage. Reluctantly he agreed and so Belle got into the habit of joining him in research every afternoon.

While he would have loved to dedicate every hour of the day to research Rumple found himself needing to sleep at least eight whole hours, which he hadn't done since his human days, perhaps not even then. And for the first time in centuries, he dreamt. He dreamt he turned small, fairy-sized and could never figure out how to undo it, dreamt he was caught, neutralized, poked and prodded, dreamt the Blue Fairy somehow gained a way to control him, to bend him to his will like she seemed to do most other fairies. He dreamt his body grew hot and tight till he exploded and woke up feeling very much like it could come true any second. And sometimes he dreamt of nothing but a yearning, so strong and so encompassing that it left him completely hollow, nothing but an empty shell.

Such restless nights induced him to sleep in some days, too exhausted to even crack a book open. And it was during one of those lonely morning research sessions that Belle stumbled across a book on fairy anatomy and physiology, seemingly written by some sort of fairy scholar for academic purposes, which was fascinating. There wasn't an index so the brunette spent most of her morning trying to decipher the internal logic of the book. Close to the end she finally found a chapter on what could be loosely translated as "half-breeds", children born of a fairy and a human male. They were rare, which Belle had already gathered, and wholly rejected by fairies, who were under the impression that half-breeds were completely human, inheriting none of the characteristics of their mother. Fairies were encouraged, therefore, to leave their child with humans, as a mortal child would be out of place amongst faes.

The author, whoever, had done extensive research and knew popular wisdom to be wrong. Half-breeds, they affirmed, had fae potential, buried inside them. Their fairiness lay dormant inside them, and for most it was never awakened.

"It is the spark of true love, a magic beyond anything else there is in this world, that can trigger the latent potential of a half-breed. Once a half-breed develops true love the change will commence."

Every symptom listed after it, every description that followed, fit Rumplestiltskin's behaviour and his sufferings exactly. The author went on to explain that a full sprouting, as they called the sudden appearance of wings, could only happen if the half-breed was in close and constant contact with his or her true love, and that the only way to stop the transformation was by separation.

"Have you found anything?"

Belle startled, her body jerking almost off the chair. Rumplestiltskin looked less put together than usually, with his hair even wilder than normal and dark circles under his eyes, his tunic barely laced up at the top. He looked strangely vulnerable with his droopy wings trailing behind him. A fierce need to protect him, to make his pain go away, stole over her. It was one the tip of her tongue to tell him of her discovery, but she stopped herself at the last minute. She had no way of knowing if she had translated the book correctly, or if the author was right about any of it. It wouldn't do to tell Rumple before she could be sure.

"N-no. Just dead ends. Come sit down, I'll fix you something to eat."

Since sprouting wings Rumplestiltskin seemed to be hungry all the time, but nothing she cooked seemed to tempt him. As a result he was looking gaunt and a little unsteady on his feet. His magic, he kept saying, would keep him from dying or severe malnutrition but the idea that he would not die was not enough to settle her. Surreptitiously she grabbed the fairy book she'd been reading from and snuck it out with her. As she hoped a more thorough read revealed many coping mechanisms for half-breeds in transition. If the book was indeed accurate about what Rumple was experiencing there was no better way to test it.

Following the instructions in the book she whisked an egg-yolk, added an unpalatable amount of sugar, a dash of vanilla essence and mixed it into a hot cup of milk. It wasn't tea, and Belle was afraid Rumple would question her about it, but to her delighted surprise he simply picked up the cup and drank it all down, going as far as to lick his lips when he finished. Filled with a strange mixture of relief and dread she prepared another cup, and a third one after that. It took five for him to be full, and along with hunger they chased away some of Rumplestiltskin's surliness.

She whisked the book away to her rooms, where she knew the Dark One would never venture, and devoured the rest of its contents, making notes about what other things she could try to ease Rumplestiltskin's pain and discomfort. Like most fairy texts she had read, this one was written in a convoluted, roundabout way, hard to decipher and understand. It took her four careful readings of the same paragraph to understand, for example, that flower syrups would tempt almost any half-breed into eating. She tried first with the blooms scattered about the castle in great vases, but though the syrups she made from them were sweet and pleasant they only marginally improved her master's appetite.

It wasn't until she tried with the dandelions that she had more positive results. Rumplestiltskin all but devoured the meat she glazed with the syrup and the vegetables she seasoned with it. She spent an entire afternoon making batches and batches of it, mindful of the fact that winter would come sooner or later and snuff the dandelions away. A little bit of creativity allowed her to include the syrup in almost anything she knew how to cook and though it made some meals a little too sweet for her tastes Rumplestiltskin could not get enough of anything she cooked. When he enquired about it, hopeful she'd found something to do with his particular situation, Belle made up a story about reading on fairy diet and experimenting around with the knowledge.

Equal parts emboldened and terrified by her success she perused the book some more, looking for something she could pass as her own idea. She finally settled on something the fairy expert claimed was soothing for sprouting fairies: running a soft-bristled brush down his wings. Rumple's wings, like a moth's, were formed by tiny scales, which were shed periodically to make room for new ones. It meant he often shed and would periodically complain of itchiness. It was said complaint that gave her the opening she needed to suggest this new experiment, but Rumplestiltskin resisted her at first. His wings were uncommonly sensitive, she knew, and he was skittish about letting anything touch them. It took a lot of convincing- and three of his potions being utterly ruined by the shedding- to get him to sit down one night, grumbling and fidgeting as he tried to find a comfortable position while sitting astride the chair, so that his back and wings were completely accessible. But as soon as she drew the brush gently down one wing he froze, every bit of him tensing up. A moment later, as if by magic, he relaxed all over, slumping against the back of the chair, practically draping himself all over it in an effort to remain upright. Belle was almost afraid to do it again, but Rumple's wings twitched hopefully, as if asking for more. With a shaking hand, she drew the brush down once more, letting it gently slide against the short coating of fluff that covered Rumple's wings, daring to comb a hand over the wings afterwards.

It felt like he was completely under her power and Belle was surprised to realise a part of her liked it. The Dark One was, without a question, the most powerful being in the realm. Fairies might try to say otherwise and some delusional witch or warlock might wish to downplay it but it was common knowledge. The Dark One was what horrible things that went bump in the night were scared of. And there he was, practically boneless, his guard completely down and... purring. Apparently the Dark One could purr. It was... surreal. Like some sleek jungle cat, both predatory and strangely, endearingly sweet. And completely at her mercy, every bit of him. And it was such a rush, but after the initial, world-tilting sense of euphoria Belle was overcome with fierce tenderness and a desperate need to protect him. Which, of course, was ridiculous. In a dangerous situation there was likely little she could do to protect Rumplestiltskin that he couldn't do himself better and by just snapping his fingers or simply willing it to happen. She couldn't even muster the courage to tell him of what she'd discovered.

'I can't do much, but I can do this. Make him better, soothe him.' She brushed the wings with care, taking pains not to miss a spot. They gave off a sharp, citrusy smell that was more than a bit distracting but she anchored herself to the moment, determined to drive every bit of tension out of him. Afterwards she had to practically carry him to bed, so unsteady he was, practically asleep in her arms. As she expected he was awkward and stilted with her in the morning, feeling vulnerable and out of sorts, but she waited him out patiently and a few days later he was shyly requesting a brush before bed. She let him set the pace, seek her out, let him have that bit of control she knew he desperately needed.

Brushing brought him great relief but also a measure of discomfort due to how raw and exposed it left him so Belle sought other subtler ways to soothe him. Not everything in the book worked- Rumple didn't seem too much appreciate it when she started adding a bit of cinnamon to the water she used to launder his clothes, for example, and actually seemed to develop a rash when she tried a cup of lemon juice instead- but some things did. Belle grew used to humming as she worked and though her master would protest that she sang off-key and flat he'd always find reasons to be around her when she did so, some imagined errand or pretend chore.

With mounting evidence of the veracity of the book she'd discovered it finally dawned on Belle the implications of it all. She was in love with Rumplestiltskin, the evidence of it hanging plainly from between his shoulder blades, and he was in love with her. And it wasn't just love, it was True Love. The kind that did not happen to most people, that stories talked about with a sort of reverence that was intimidating. She had never thought True Love would happen to her. She was a minor noble of a modest little hamlet who'd be lucky to make an advantageous match, just like her parents before her. If she was lucky she'd end up with someone she could grow to like, if not love. But this... this was something else. The sheer power it gave her over Rumple scared her. And the power it gave Rumple over her downright terrified her.

It didn't even cross her mind to think that he could purposely hurt her. That was impossible. Rumple, she was sure, would rather cut off his hand than use it to strike her. But she did worry he'd unintentionally do so, that he'd lash out against the very idea of True Love and the notion it had brought out in him things he'd rather had laid dormant. She'd seen how much hurt his mother had caused him. How much dormant pain had stirred when he's laid eyes on her, even when it had been him who'd sought her out. Belle knew there was a good chance all that hatred, all that suffering, could be directed her way. Right now, with the news of it so fresh in her mind, in her heart, she was not ready to deal with him, not ready to give up the safety that his ignorance provided her. It was better to wait, better to have the time to digest it and process it herself before she sprang it on him. It would be her burden to bear for a while, even if the weight of it killed her.

* * *

She was killing him. Slowly, gently, sweetly, but killing him nevertheless. It almost made him miss the pain of his sprouting, when he'd been naive enough to think he knew what hell on Earth was. Hell on Earth was having gone from sleeping securely in Belle's arms to tossing and turning alone, trying to find a good sleeping position without his new appendages getting in the way, all the while being able to smell his little maid in the distance, tucked into her wee bed. Her smell, which weeks ago had seemed enchanting, was now downright irresistible, driving him mad. And the only thing worse than smelling her was not doing so. An anxiousness stole over him when his nose couldn't catch the faintest whiff of her, usually when she was in the orchard and her scent was hidden by that of the trees in full bloom.

Then there was the singing. His maid didn't have a gifted voice, not by any standard, but she could at least carry a tune. And yet there was something about her humming, about the way it seemed to make him vibrate, that was almost hypnotic. It set him at ease and on fire at once, made him melt and tense up and want... something. He'd always thought he accent beautiful, almost a purr sometimes, but the humming was... heavenly. Made him shiver all over, got into his head and made it hard to think.

But the brushing was the worst of it. And the best of it. It was glorious. It was awful. It was... decadent. So far he'd found that his wings, which at first had been overly-sensitive, soon adapted to being out, so to speak, and didn't much bother him anymore. But the fuzz did tend to build up and later shed all over the place, so he'd consented to that first brush thinking it was the practical, rational thing to do. Until that first brush stroke, that was, when he literally went weak at the knees and thanked every god there was that he was sitting down. It was as if every part of him was being caressed at the same time. And it got far more intense when Belle put aside the brush to run her own fingers down his wings. Oh, how they seemed to love it. They twitched and unfurled, as if seeking to impress her. Hateful little buggers, with a mind of their own.

He was losing his own, meanwhile. In many ways he felt better than he had in decades. The voices in his head had quieted down to almost nothing, a faint whisper in the back of his head. His fairy blood, he knew, had changed how the Dark Curse hung upon his person, and in many ways he was less Dark One than before, while in others he was more. He certainly felt more in control than at any time since stabbing Zoso, which felt incredible. But his fairy magic was difficult to control and often did as it pleased, which meant slowly learning to make it submit. With the Dark Curse, magic had been at his beck and call from the start, but now it acted up, a strange mixture of curse and fairy.

But the greatest change had to be how he felt about Belle. Not wanting her, or being besotted, those things predated his... change. He could hardly remember a time he'd known Belle and not mooned over her like some idiot, and it had been ages since he'd even tried to lie to himself about it. But those feelings had been wrapped in a safe cocoon of self-loathing, crippling shyness, and overwhelming inferiority that guaranteed him self-control, at least enough not to make a fool of himself and impose upon his maid's kind nature. But now those defences, the decorum and the propriety and above all the all-consuming fear that had held him at bay did not seem to be enough. His want, his need, was all-encompassing, almost a physical pain.

Nevertheless, he thought he had it mostly under control until the day he woke up warm and contented, wing wrapped securely around a sleeping Belle. For a moment he thought it a dream, one he had had often enough, and didn't question it. Instead he let himself indulge, gathering his sleepy little maid close and rubbing his cheek against his fragrant hair. She was wearing what was clearly one of her favourite nightgowns, one he had gifted her with constellations sewn into the neckline and hemline that he'd stitched himself, and her hair was coming undone from the plait he knew she painstakingly put it on every night. She smelled divinely, and was deliciously warm. It was all incredibly domestic and wonderful until he felt the tug of a summon- he wasn't answering calls, but it didn't stop people from trying to summon him- and realised that it was all real: the bed, the maid, the awful compromising position. And after a bout of panic he had the presence of mind to magically whisked the girl away to the safety of her own room.

He waited all day for her to tell her she'd snuck into his room for some reason, perhaps to check on him or to tell him she'd made a breakthrough of sorts, but she didn't. She acted as if she was completely unaware of what had happened and he became convinced she wasn't pretending. Perhaps, he theorised, his maid was sleep-walking. The affliction was brought on by stress and there had been plenty of that going on around the Dark Castle lately, so it didn't exactly surprise him. He didn't enjoy the idea of locking her up so instead he placed a protective charm around her, to be sure she wouldn't hurt herself wandering around the castle, and locked all doors leading to dangerous rooms, including his own chambers. With his self-control wearing thin his maid was safer at night the furthest she was from him.

The second time he woke up with an armful of warm, soft Belle, he knew at once it wasn't a dream. The room was dark but his enhanced eyes needed little help to see in such conditions. Belle appeared sound asleep, hair done in two neat plaits instead of one, which made his fingers itch with the need to touch them. And she positively reeked of magic. Three hundred years as the Dark One had given him quite a nose for it, over the years, so it was easy for him to distinguish what spell had been done to his little Belle. A transportation spell. And his own magic, or at least the out-of-control new one. He had done this in his sleep, somehow. He remembered yearning in his dreams, wanting something so fiercely he burned with it. And so his fairy magic, or whatever it was he now had, had seen fit to put a stop to his aching by giving it what it wanted.

Wonderful.

As quietly as he could he tried to magic her away, only for it not to work. Cursing his mother, fate and whatever else he could think of he instead placed his maid under a heavy sleeping spell and carried her to her bedroom, making sure his hands never strayed to forbidden territory and that he didn't breathe, lest he be taken in by her smell. Soon, much to his dismay, it became an almost nightly ritual to wake up snuggled up to Belle. His wings always found a way to wrap themselves around her, and were reluctant to unfurl at his command. He became increasingly desperate to make sense of his new condition, to understand and master it before his restraint broke, but no leads in his research seemed to pan out. He grew frantic, and he knew it, but the more time passed the less sure he felt about his self-control and the more danger his little maid was in. Soon, if he didn't find something, he'd be forced to send her away for her own safety. But the mere thought of it had his wings shuddering and his heart lurching in protest.

Though he had grown used to keeping regular sleeping hours he forsook sleep once more, as he had done often as the Dark One. He needed the extra time to research and experiment, and if he didn't sleep he couldn't unconsciously steal Belle from her wee bed. He knew the lass was starting to get suspicious about his nightly activities, since he was listless in the mornings and tended to fall asleep after the noon meal like some doddery old man. He'd told her some convincing lie about how the change was still zapping his strength, and she'd seemed to believe him. And he'd been so preoccupied with other things that he hadn't questioned her easy acceptance, nor recalled his maid's insatiable curiosity.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

It was a testament to how submerged he had been in his perusal of a compendium of magical creatures rumoured to have been written by the first Apprentice- and the Dark Ones inside him, muffled and distorted since the transformation, growing weak in his head, balked at the idea of turning to an Apprentice for help- that he didn't smell her approach. Once she spoke, though, it was as if his whole body turned its attention towards her and he could feel her closeness all the way down to his bones. It was disturbing.

"Go to sleep, dearie. It's too late for pretty little maids to be up and about."

He spied her out of the corner of his eye, noticing her bare arms and the thin, gauzy nature of her nightgown. His fingers twitched, half a nervous habit and half out of the sheer need to feel her skin, undo the already-messy braid that bound her hair. Belle was past the standard marriage age, in her late twenties rather that her late teens, and hadn't led the pampered life of a typical royal, having grown up in the shadows of the current Ogre Wars. And yet there was this indescribable innocence about her, one that did not speak of naivete or ignorance, one that he could scarcely understand. A light that was all Belle's own and he, like the overgrown moth he literally was, found himself drawn to it. Seeing her so flimsily-dressed and unadorned only seemed to enhance it. Unease trickled down his spine, making his wings twitch.

'Down, you.'

"You need sleep, Rumple. You're not well."

The worry in her voice made him feel guilty, but sleep was absolutely out of the question.

"Nonsense, there's too much to read to think about sleep. Now off to bed with you, little maid."

She took a couple of steps towards him, extending a hand as if to touch him, and he took a step back. She was too close, and smelt too wonderful and hand the loveliest little sheen of perspiration on the side of her neck he wanted to lick off slowly, altogether too tempting to be safe around him. Visibly hurt she dropped her arm to the side and fisted the skirt of her nightgown, uneasy.

"If you can't sleep I know just the thing. It'll take me minutes to go down to the kitchens to prepare it and it'll put you to sleep in a heartbeat, just you wa-"

"I. Said. NO."

Being flippant hadn't worked, and his usual empty threats had absolutely no effect on his intrepid Belle, so behaving like an actual monster was the only card he had left to play. Better she think him cruel and quick to anger than know the true depths of his depravity, the things he burned to do to her. Other than his misbegotten tryst with Cora and his hadn't been a very sexual life. With Milah they had enjoyed a bout of traditional, safe lovemaking before the relationship had soured into that of people who lived in the same small hovel and somewhat tolerated each other, not the sort of thing that lent itself to romantic encounters and even less once Milah started looking elsewhere for her needs. As a Dark One his lust had been concentrated mainly on power, which explained his attraction to Cora. Though over the years he had acquired a rather vast knowledge of everything dark and depraved he had never thought to put any of it to practice, the urge had never materialised other than in some vague, easily-ignored ache. Now, however, his mind seemed consumed with possibilities, scenarios featuring him and his lovely lass, entwined together in all manner of ways. His wings twitched again, as if eager, and he cursed his mother anew.

"Rumple, please, the books can keep. Please, I'm worried for you."

She was getting close again. Brave Belle. Beautiful Belle.

"Worry for yourself! Worry for the monster you live with, and the monstrous things that could happen to you!"

Stubborn wee thing stood her ground, though he could see the worry in her eyes. Foolish woman.

"It's too late to play the overbearing master, Rumple. I've been here for over a year and know better. You'd never hurt me.

He laughed, the sound mirthless and bitter, more akin to a sob. His entire body was screaming for her, feeling like it was on fire. He sunk his claws into his hair, trying to stop them from reaching for her.

"You wouldn't say such things if you knew..." His voice was a mere trickle at first, but got louder as the truth finally came pouring out, unwillingly, from his mouth. "You're not safe here anymore. I'm not safe anymore. Whatever freakish thing I've turned into, whatever godless mistake of magic I am now, wants... so many things. And it's driving me mad. You're driving me mad."

It was unfair to accuse her, a part of him knew, but he was completely unhinged. He moved towards her, wishing she'd cower and run, knowing she wouldn't. She looked confused and, surprisingly, slightly guilty.

"How am I-?"

"It's everything! It's... it's the flowers! And the food! And that bloody humming! No matter where you are in the castle I can hear it and it makes me... makes me..." Frustrated, he flung a hand to the side and the books on the table scattered around like frightened birds. Belle frowned, her attention focused on the books for a second, and he seethed. He'd more than once lost her attention completely to a story or a novel and it made him unreasonably angry to see her worry for the books and not focus her entire attention on the advancing monster in front of her. But as he got closer her scent intensified, bringing with it a sort of mellowness. When he finally was nose-to-nose with his maid he leaned over, resting his head against her right shoulder and sighing at the way the scent pooled around the area.

"The way you smell, gods, you have no idea."

He was practically purring now, nuzzling her neck like a pampered lap cat. Beneath him he felt her tremble, but when she raised a hand it wasn't to push him away put to gently pet him.

"Oh, Rumple, I'm so sorry."

He wanted to tell her she didn't need to apologise for anything, that he was the monster, the villain, preying on her gentle nature and innate kindness, the one forcing his attentions on her and her misguided sense of pity. But speech was beyond him at the moment, his senses overwhelmed with the reality of Belle's body practically moulded against his own, warm, soft and fragrant. It felt wonderfully decadent to stop fighting his body's natural instincts and surrender to them instead. In a moment he'd collect himself and withdraw, would stop imposing his hideous presence on Belle and her charitable nature, would gather up some magic and transport her to her bedroom, which he had already secured against his unwanted presence, but he'd steal for himself one minuscule moment of bliss to sustain him. Belle kept talking, and though her voice was soothing, almost drowsing, he fought to pay attention and make sense of her words.

"I should have told you, but I was afraid. Not that you'd hurt me, not on purpose, but... I didn't think you'd be affected in any special way, the book didn't mention anything about-"

"What... book?"

Suddenly he was deadly focused on her words. Slowly, haltingly, she told him of the fairy book she'd read, the one that spoke of halflings. Knowing there was a name for what he was, and that some halflings did go through the change he had undergone, filled him with relief. He wasn't a freak of nature, wasn't a mistake, just a rarity. And after the initial spike of comfort his thoughts turned dark. Belle had kept this from him. She had known for weeks and hadn't thought to tell him. True, he'd hid a lot of his inner suffering and turmoil from her for obvious reasons, but she'd still seen him suffering, had seen him search frantically for an explanation. And yet she had kept quiet.

"You knew why this was happening to me and you kept quiet? Why?"

"Because it's my fault! I did this to you, I triggered the change! I didn't mean to do it but it's my fault and I was afraid to tell you because I know how you hate it! I know how you feel about your mother, about fairies, and I can't even begin to understand how it must have felt when you... when it happened."

He wanted to be furious at the confession that she had done something to him, but she looked so contrite, her eyes shining with unshed tears, that in the end he couldn't. He knew Belle, in all her mouth-watering purity. She was light, and even the small parts of her that belonged to the darkness- and they were mouth-watering too, in a different way- could not account for such cruelty. She had made the decision not to tell him out of fear.

"And what did the book say caused the change?"

To his sputtering incredulity Belle took his hand, claws and all, and pressed it against his heart, doing, letting the palm of her right hand rest against his.

"The change is caused by True Love. By the time I found out it was too late to reverse it, too far along to deny it. Not that I could anyway, I knew it to be true the moment I read it on the page." A wistful smile danced across her lips, making him squeak like a mouse. "It feels... exactly like in the stories my mother used to tell me. And not at all at the same time. But as much as I welcomed it, I knew you, knew you enough to guess you'd lash out. And so I wanted to keep it a secret for a while, so I could enjoy it, could get used to it before I broke the news to you. Wanted to make you feel comfortable first, make you more likely to... to not fight it when you knew."

True Love. True fucking Love? Not possible. He was the Dark One, incapable of anything of the sort. Too ugly to love, even before he had taken the curse. Unlovable even as a babe, the one person in all the realms surely untouched by the notion of True Love. He entertained, briefly, the possibility that Belle had made an error in translation, though he forced himself to dismiss the idea almost at once: Belle was a skilled linguist, and he was sure she would have checked over and over to see if she was wrong about something so momentous.

He must have shown himself to be lost in his thoughts, for Belle pressed a hand against his cheek, bringing him back to the present.

"I wanted to keep it a secret to try and find a way to break it to you gently, knowing that if I didn't do this right you'd send me away or reject what I was saying. I was sure you were completely unaware of it, I didn't know... I didn't know your fairy nature would compel you so. But you're not a monster, you're not broken or rotten or any of the things you thought." Belle closed her eyes, as if in pain, and he made a faint noise of dismay at that. "All this time I was worried about you hurting me without meaning to and it's been me hurting you unaware."

He made another sound of protest when it looked like she might cry, pulling her closer and rubbing his nose against her own, cooing words of reassurance. It was instinctive, now that he'd lowered his defences and stopped pretending he didn't want Belle in his arms. Now that everything finally clicked in place and he could finally feel the love coursing strong and true along with his lust.

"Hush, sweetheart, hush."

It made it real, the fact that he shared True Love with someone only to cause that person pain. Seemed right up his alley, fitting the story of his life to a T. In any other situation he might have spiralled into one of his usual bouts of self-loathing, but Belle was suffering and he needed her to stop, needed her to know everything was alright. That he didn't care about the deceit- to be honest he quite understood it- or about the transformation, that everything seemed worth it to have her in his arms like she was now. Following the instinct he'd been battling for too long he tilted his head to the side slanting his lips across her. He felt the spark immediately, and even if he hadn't the mad howling of the past Dark Ones would have clued him in. True Love's Kiss, such a powerful magic, capable of breaking any-

His curse raged, the Dark Ones in his mind howling, as if burned. For a moment he panicked, feeling the curse's grasp on him loosen and fade slowly. But it didn't leave him completely. After all the curse had changed, had merged with his new nature and become something else, something more than just a curse. And though the voices of the Dark Ones became even dimmer they didn't disappear altogether, and he could feel magic still coursing through his veins and his fairy nature strengthened. The magical theorist in him conjured up a likely hypothesis: if the change was triggered by True Love, True Love's Kiss was certain to complete it.

He sighed, kissing her further, arms going around her as if he'd drown if he wasn't clinging to her. She tasted even better than she smelled, and the slight inexperience with which she returned his kisses almost drove him wild. She was curious too, eager to mimic what little he could teach her about kissing and explore new angles and sensations. He whimpered pitifully when her fingers tugged on his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp and awakening an erogenous zone he had no idea existed. He felt more creature than man, his instinct being to rut and mate, to bite and scratch and mark her as his but above all to have her do those things in return and take him as her own.

He felt a whoosh of magic, of his own making but not consciously done, and a second later they were falling into his massive bed. Belle giggled, breaking the kiss, and he whimpered again, trying not to sound like a needy fool and failing. She looked around, noticing the extra pelts and blankets he'd dragged into the bed and arranged in a sort of circular motion. Other things were strewn about, spools of gold, colourful feathers and beads, sparkly bits of glass and...

"Are those the books I've been looking all over for? And is that the throw I usually keep in the library for when I fall asleep in the duvet?"

Rumplestiltskin, who was trying hard not to moan as Belle wiggled beneath him, looked around, noticing for the first time that, indeed, there were books about, as well as Belle's favourite throw. And, come to think of it, the beads and bits of glass that he'd for some reason began to hoard were mostly blue and cream, Belle's favourite colours. And when had he arranged the blankets and pelts in such a way? It almost looked like...

"Nesting. You're nesting. I read about it in the book, it was all very vague."

There was awe in her voice and for the first time he paused to bask in the glow of Belle's reaction to his transformation. Once the concern over his health and mental stability had passed Belle had openly admired his new self, from his wings, which seemed to fascinate her, to his new quirks and habits. There was not a trace of pity or disgust, no shying away or keeping her distance. Belle truly, honestly seemed to be in awe, as if he was some miraculous thing, some incredible... mystery to uncover.

Oh.

Oh.

"I like it. Many of my favourite things are here, so I suppose I should spend more time here."

She smiled, what he now recognised as a flirty tilt of her lips, and he felt his own mouth shaping into a shy grin in return. Apparently he'd built himself and his little maid a cosy nest, and she was charmed by it. Strange lass, attracted to what people would shy away from. How had he been able to find her?

It was an important question but Rumplestiltskin couldn't bring himself to contemplate it. Not when Belle was beneath him, wearing only a flimsy nightgown and a coquettish smile and smelling in such an enticing way. He kissed her again, feeling like he needed to as much as he wanted to. A part of him, the part that was more human and less instinct-driven wild thing, tried to pull back, to slow down. Belle was a maiden and a lady, unused to rough-handling and the like, he surely wouldn't want him pawing at her like an animal. But far from turning skittish or shy Belle pushed forward, eager for more. She pressed him close, her hands exploring his back before splaying over his wings, making him shudder and moan.

"Oh, gods..."

Unconsciously he ground his hips against hers, feeling the delicious heat of her through the few layers of clothing that separated them. A moment later he yelped when Belle hitched a leg around his waist and swung them around, fighting to be on top. They tousled around for what seemed like the longest time, a playful fight for dominance that had him hard and panting. His claws took issue with her nightgown, ripping a seam here and opening a tear there. When one of her shoulders was exposed he wasted no time nipping at it, licking the sweat off her skin like it was ambrosia. He lingered in the juncture where her neck met her shoulder, his longer-than-normal canines leaving an impression that would have distressed him, if she hadn't mewled so sweetly into his ear when he'd bitten her.

He was too far lost in her by the time her clever little hands found a way to strip him of his shirt and undo the ties that held his sleeping pants closed. He muffled a howl against her throat when her fingers grazed his aching cock, the touch tentative at first but firmer as she drew more and more pitiful little sounds out of him, growing more and more confident the more wretched she made him. Inside him a part of him that was all fairy, that he'd been fighting tooth and nail for weeks, sang in joy.

'Mate' it whispered inside him 'Sweet little mate. Ours. Hers.'

Whatever wild creature he'd become was completely tamed by her touches and softly-worded commands, let itself be led gently by the hand like a well-behaved pet. He only fought her once, when she wrapped her legs around his waist and press her heels against his lower back, urging him. He didn't want to hurt her, to cause her any sort of pain, but she was determined and brazen in the face of his cautious restraint and in the end, he could do nothing but surrender to her whim. Even so he felt her tense slightly when he entered her, and it almost was enough to distract him from the delicious heat of her, the way her cunt gripped him so firmly. Pushing back the need to thrust, the almost biological imperative to do so, he gave her the time she needed until he felt her relax beneath him, so the stubbornness return to her expression.

One he began to rock against her he lost all track of time. It seemed to last the length of a sigh and an eternity at the same time. Belle's voice grew hoarse as soft encouragements grew into lusty little cries, hands gripping the base of his wings for leverage. It was just what he needed, for it made him lose all sense of finesse or propriety, rutting against her with increasing force. Shamefully he felt himself close to reaching climax painfully fast and though Belle felt flatteringly wet around his cock he knew she wasn't ready yet. Mindful of his claws he reached towards where his body joined hers and fumbled around, trying to not get distracted by the scent of her arousal. He lets the little hitches in her breath and her wonderful squeaks guide him and soon enough he felt her begin to flutter around him, her body arching in a most becoming way as she let go completely, allowing him to do the same. He sunk his claws into the furs and pelts beneath them as he came, fearful of hurting her otherwise.

He almost collapsed on top of her afterwards but Belle being Belle she managed to manoeuvre them both into a comfortable position in their rumpled nest, entwined together in something that felt more intimate than their coupling. Embarrassingly his wings wouldn't stop twitching until he allowed them to wrap around Belle, who giggled and stroked them dutifully. Perhaps being part fairy wouldn't be so bad. Though he had just undergone a major physical and magical change he felt more like himself than he had ever since he had become the Dark One, somehow comfortable in this new skin of his. He snuggled closer to his little maid, purring in appreciation when she carded her fingers through his hair, and quickly fell asleep.


End file.
